We Make Things Possible

I used to love to work; to come inside
every day, begin to work
& what that means (to assume
a false beginning) is walking up
the tiled path. There’s a
metal hand rail next to the path, grass
to either side. The sign at the front a defunct
emblem. The company since has changed.
I walk up the tiled path which is nearly
seven paces. If it has been raining
I fear slipping on the tiles, and most days
I think of one of our “service users”
slipping up. Entering first a door & then
another through an airlock. The first door.

, A white button at eye level. My hand
reaches up to the button and
on first attempt presses it but finds no resistance.
In the second pressing I push from the top of the

rubber button cover (grey) down and find
the hard switch, feel it click, hear a distant
shriek repeated
twice. Someone appears through the glass. Both doors

in the airlock are glass panelled
and I watch as one of my colleagues
appears on the other side of the second
door. There are two doors and an airlock space
about a y-a-r-d and a half between us. ( i-closed exteriors, violent house, fucked & deathish))

The second door, the second
one before me is managed by two codes:
one on the outside of the door if you
are coming in, and one on the inside
if you are going out. It makes sense when
you see it. Once the person on the in-
side taps in the code they open up the
second door to me or the first door to
them. They step forward two to three paces
and open the second door to them
using a yale lock. I walk in;
to the airlock. Sometimes service
users are on the other side. On the other
side,, the side of the second door to them
approximate to the first door to me the first to me
the second to whoever it i that waits to stand there
at the second to my eyes seeing through the glass
of each second and of the second first,, two
horrific doors and even then to not have
begun.
One, she belies the second door switched
into its gastronomical gravitation, the humming pull
of each door the air locked between them
she has usually been in an adjacent
room near the door, the body, and I am able now
to acclimatise to levels of anxiety
and stress based on whether or not she calls
out my name as soon as I have entered
the house.

It is now 7:26am, and thus in accordance
I must not pretend to have begun,, having begun
counts for none of these primary actions. Thus
I step three or four paces forwards and
turning into another door on the
left with glass panels, I take those three or
four steps towards the door and pass by a
window into the same room; the door lets
me into it. My gratitude goe into the door.

The handle by the architrave will hurt you as your entry fee
commencing with your body through the gap’s totality:
To total on your body wrapped in anxious burning sores;
to fail upon the traumas squeezing through these shitty doors:

Another horrible door looms into sight, magnificently
door like, so much a door it could barely be anything
else.
So your hand gets
caught between the handle
and the wood, dull
pain.
Your service manager wonders wistfully
if your stuck hand is an act of protest
to somehow discredit his efforts. He locks himself
into a CB000 like a bald eagle released
at a Southern Baptist wedding only to smash
its neck on the shitty circular stained glass
window above the vanishing door. Wir machen
es möglich

The doors represent an elapsed fantasy
of the interior and exterior. Because you are
here and not there the ones there and not
here are to blame for the failures

of the structure inherent to here.
It’s like when you lock someone out
of the house which isn’t yours to later
let them in once they’ve caught a virus

you gave them only to be reprimand
for your virus of the symptom once
you had then had by them to look like you
but worse because excluded from

the warm you made to make them
less like you locked out in six by two
panel locks; codifying hatred for
the later DOLs assessment. MCA

to DOLs via Best Interest on
the feed to make the phone hang up
to call again hit mute to hear
the cruelty of the crisis splitting out;

prognosis veiled by crippling
self worth into the PCP identifier.
Strip your face naked and cum on me.
Because of the internal and external

on the second of June 2016 -=0l NOT
AN early birthday present ,p8 humbled
to disquiet) caught out of the elapsed
relation between door one and two,

the arbitration of my life collapsed
by other lives. This is what us leaving
feels like; a broken relational subjectivity
comprising here and there, the self

and the other, these terrible words, like
academic white gallery space funding
applications,, or those pointless explanatory
plaques screwed in by the “pieces”, saying:

This piece explores issues of space, the other,
the self and interiority. Whereas my life
currently consists of lubricating two
doors we’re not even meant to have

because of the Mental Capacity Act,
allowing people through both ways,
the life of a white gallery space, and
particularly those that write their

captions, is infinitely futile. Not
less but fewer. My life is fewer pointless
than yours. That’s why when I’m really
covered in grease, toin^le-hoi,,i-body/

gender dysphoria - the late filament
of an entirety to pain people still that love
you will say the darndest things to hurt
you for you are not the only one to feel like this \.

It is a physical pain levelling into despair
levelling into paralysis levelling into self
hatred levelling into paralysis levelling into self
harm levelling into alienation levelling into self

doubt levelling into public scorn levelling
into personal scorn levelling into priapic hatred
levelling into alienation in labour levelling into
fear of speaking levelling into nothing

levelling into anxiety levelling into lateness
until terminally levelling into the workforce,,
becoming at least levelishly acceptable and what
you do there is level terminally into life,

the subset of dysphoria in front of two closed
doors. The closed doors levelling into dreams
behind them is the outside. Behind them again
is the inside.The most painful expression of them

is this.

The door to the office:
Sometimes it is locked to exclude
service users, sometimes it is unlocked. Or
sometimes it’s wide open with a heavy
pestle to prop it. On the floor by the

pestle is a letter holder, purple,
with a black handle and next to that the
copier printer scanner with four drawers
for paper and across from that on the

other wall is Kronos, the black box with
a green screen and a number panel which
my finger stabs at hitting out my low
employee reference number which is

10022539. And at this point in my lidless
journey to expressive life never could I have seen
myself rising through the echelons to constitute
the “I” this thing is filled with as the trustful

exponent of truth, rising from my baseness
into the day,, against these tyrants of management
& government, the moral bastion of our senses,
I: that in my perfect care would wound upon

the lies of those that stand in perfect
harmonic opposition. Trust me. As I curved
body and wrist between the horrible architrave
and door to my grave, could never have imagined

myself here, saying: “Agreed that you’re living in an unsuitable environment.

· Discussed strategies for working with you in the house. I wake into the night where my skin is scatter graphed over the sheets to make an itch of the left skin to make an allergy of the dander scattered to bleed into and onto the bed::,,, Sucked into a specific septic eclectic curving surface, as in waves, as in over the knot the first burst of daily behavioural records, fuck you b i r d s.

· Scatter graphs to track daily behaviours.

· Fiona and Verity to have a semi regular office day in total darkness, hooded, lashed back to back on the stool of a humiliatrix fumbling at the mottos in the risk assessments scrawl.

· To focus on a specific area of support to curtail some of the more problematic behaviours. death shriek to me open|:

· Possible changes to shopping arrangements. Shipping is the lifeblood of the global economy &&&&&&& most terminally emitting sounds like this: Am I going to be sick? Are you sick? Were you coughing? Do I have a demon in me? Am I going to be sick? Claire said she felt sick. Do you feel; sick and was that you coughing? I will run away/… I have a pilot’s license and when I flew my plane the wing was shredded with lightning. Am I going to be sick? I can’t be sick. I can’t breathe. I need space. I need oxygen. Will Trump be the next president? What are we going to do about this. All those poor people in Calais and no one’s doing a fucking thing to stop it [right fist goes hard into computer table causing the Hewlett Packard ProOne 400 to wobble gently as you do, the other hand open to a palm with the hard of the palm centred on the indent to the side of the head, crashing into it.] Who I vote for is my personal business. I can roll under here. When is Toni coming back? When is Loz? When is Christie? Was Loz sick? Is Loz still sick? Hello. It’s me. Can I speak to Loz? Still sick is he am I going to be sick I’ve just been discharged from hospital. The light from the window is so blue like a cave mouth, the open sky. I’m so cave.

Fewer shop trips, some walks.

· Create a showroom and show it to you to see if it makes you more interested in the idea of using a room. A Vienetta with a dad as a knot in it, fuck that. But I must tell you and have no way of doing so what then, so long ago, when first passing through those doors, that you are funded £2567.64 a week, and the service is neglecting you. You’ve been standing there for three days, and you are the entirety of beauty as an in it as is,, so the blood in me,, so ere O light of hope, doing our lives in silence.

· Add “accusations” to the risk assessment. Listeners are going to be quite surprised when they hear Joan’s frank and sincere account:>:::K?I| OM}

How dare life be took and how dare
take it? Then there’s Kronos: The
handy clock in register:

I rest my right index finger on
the print reader and either it bleeps in
satisfaction or lets out a dash dot
dot which means it hasn’t read it,

in which case I try again and again until
my three chances are through. Then I can rest
my left thumb on the reader: you get through
except when the reader was broken
for a week & the lift was broken &
the emergency radios were gone
& we were understaffed for over a
year and staff morale was at an all time
low and paranoia, anger, and loss
slunk around the building, when Kronos the
clock in machine was broken no one could
clock in so reasonably it was fixed
that very same week, except for that small
bit of time that is what we did. If my
index didn’t work my left thumb would.
Then
you go to the rota or the message
book.

The message book is a navy blue rectangle of battered irritations;

the sides and corners are frayed.
The message book is a cacophony
of panicked desire and blame.
It resembles me, I think,
as I try to scatter and pick up these
communicative auras.

They are contained, I remember, in a
navy blue and frayed a4 Lyreco
pad. I trawl and stalk through them
unhinging bits of sick from the plastic
nosebags of my dioramic lobes. Stuck
& trawling for communications, faint
the lines of the paper are set at the
industry standard distance. The pages
are thin and some have doctor’s notes
tagged on with staples or tape making some
of the pages weightier,

resembling us. Our scrawls appear
underneath each of the notes
in recognition of having read
and understood them all by rote;

Sometimes a soul communicates
annoyances in short and sharpened bursts,
each signed off. Short persuasions. Today,
I find myself hating the book, hating

its substance, and its content,
which I feel has to be the substance of its surface.
Descriptions of trauma. Descriptions of bad practice,
notes on staff misconduct, notes on notes

not properly completed, demolitions of effort,
communiqués of fear, attempts at ordering, closures,
requests to unlistening eyes,, fear of attack, (the seCzechond
door to me the second one by the floor on walk through Ash

ley by thereby underneath rotary which staff moving moving
round around don’t run around the house run by broken to make
you worse.) questions of analysis. And back to the dispenser:
Stationed to the right of the second door of the airlock

(the name I give it) the two doors with two
locks and two codes for the second door, as you go
through that second door to the right see, the plastic dispenser,
white on its top layer with a backing wall attachment in grey.
I can’t for the life of me remember its branding. Filled with
anti-bac gel; the smell of alcohol I can’t for the life of me
however much I rub it into the card and paper
make them keep its smell. It evaporates fairly
fast on contact I rub

into it on entry and at compulsive intervals
throughout the day and the last bit of it to remain unevaporated or
as I sometimes imagine unabsorbed stays cold between my fingers.
Details, details. You push the dispenser at the bottom with a single
cupped hand beneath and the gel falls on it into a pool
made from skin, or rather, whose bottom surface is skin
and whose top surface is gel. Whose skin? My skin, seeing as
I am there,

When I first arrived the staff had been purged by an outbreak
of norovirus accompanied by an on-going battle for compensation
sick pay that never came, as if to punish the germ itself, as if
the virus because caught here was dropped in by a lacy hand,

grief sick and shit that everyone got. 19. through the door
nothing approaches to occur O, FOLD on the inside the door 19. disgust
is in the debating is in that 19 is a disgusting number::: flay yourself

to the door and action
that going forward brink
to passive brink
if our resistance remains

peaceful our remains will pin
to a scatter graph this door is a nightmarish movement
of feet and hands rolling up and down the glass in a
rondo-like Vienetta surface. 19 Yazidi women are burned
alive to leak by Isis militia for refusing sexual slavery.
We discuss it. It becomes part of the day’s timetabled
education program: To debate 19 slaughtered women
and evidence it as a meaningful engagement with the world. You said:
that they can’t expect a good life living in that part of the world.
Am I going to be sick? Are you sick? Was that you
coughing? 19. of the
closing on the architrave the door
a pistol of codes to lose via DOLs assessments;
the crux of the mental capacity act is the decision
making capacity of undervalued workers and so
is the leaking world of the burned skin of 19 Yazadi
women. Night stalks nothing

there’s a pick in the back of the door,
a leaking wound for ceiling
the edging to the floor
composed to weld the floor.

The architrave is made from wounds
of cocking for the careful womb
that situates the uncompelled to cruelty
ostensibly a door: no. A wall.

Fuck life: There are, in addition
to the dispensers, them that do, :: are soap dispensers in the toilet that
let out pale green liquid anti-bac soap that claims to moisturise
the skin and in the offices there are bottles with press lids
that squirt anti-bac gel, and next to them large E45 dispensers. Hand
lotion to follow hand cleansing. I’m trying to let out an emotionless
diagram of what the space is like and give you an idea of how
my body and our bodies move about it day in day out , and I can’t imagine
even if I can see how someone else’s body feels as it moves around
the space or what the space means to it. I can’t fathom how
much more possible it may well often feel: The Dispenser
is wall mounted for ease of use and made from strong
plastic lockable for // security and comes with all the fittings
required to secure it to a wall. Linoleum floors at last
before the Care and Quality Commission : gets here but one section
when they got here remains unfinished and that section
is left with the black under floor staring up
in through space
between the staff toilet,
the hall and the quiet room.
You let something out.

When you’ve been subjected to abuse
you might slip
bits of it into your speech, taking each eye
in a vast and passive gaze, and balancing it
to gauge whether or not whatever has happened is of consequence,
and whether or not you should communicate what you are longing
always to communicate. Perhaps that longing is so private
it rests on you with impunity, you can’t see what feeling it means
or is, so``` it rests there like a socket with its correspondent knee
labouring against it, strain upon strain.

And sleep won’t collapse, but comes.
He scorned the attention deficit
and stared,, as the last one in the freezing shower
scrubbed the dirt off me with my hands.

Some of the ```things``` we achieve are amazing:

Things, by their nature are possible. A thing insofar as it is exists at least in being perceived as a thing. Whether or not it exists is boringly arguable, but for the sake of it; it does. It existing means that by its nature it is possible, in fact, perhaps any single thing that exists has proven its possibility above and beyond its call of duty. To claim to have made the impossible possible is to claim the ability to create matter from antimatter, Try applying it to the autistic spectrum. Which is why when the company handover took place I was dismayed, if you’ll excuse me, to find the new motto, aside from the motto ‘everyone has a voice’, which they use to vindicate service users with selective mutism, and to deny the existence of service users whose mutism isn’t selective, the motto stuck on me via a bright yellow magnetic badge, the motto printed over a small bright pink backdrop: ‘we make things possible’.

As part of the organisation, albeit a small part, I object very strongly to my part in the creation of matter from nothing. I object, but am I being too hard on myself? The regional manager overheard me on the phone joking that I am ‘just a support worker’, which, following my failed attempts to become an academic, musician, poet, entomologist, B2B Comms worker and terminally a senior support worker, I felt was, although a joke, at least realistically fitting. She exclaimed ‘you’re not just a support worker’, to which I replied that I also write poetry and make music when my time allows me to. We haven’t got on well; she isn’t often there (since the Care and Quality Commission inspection in April. It rained that day, it rained but the wind was not moving why isn’t the wind moving? It was flipped into the garden. She was there to get us up to scratch. But perhaps her perception of me being hard on myself by reducing myself at work to my work (would it be preferable to go about the house reading these poems aloud? Perhaps in my lingerie like at home, perhaps a little drunk.) is the same as the hard on myself I am being when I feel affronted by being burdened with the task of creating matter from antimatter. Do you see what I mean? I mean, what am I for? Am I but spreading negativity? Am I adding something to the general joy that springs and shrieks from ground to sky the world over, wouldn’t it be perfect to be a signifier in that grand dance. A chopstick on wedged into an electric heater, the ergonomic posture chair burning in the IT room, crackling and pouring black oily smoke to make you laugh. Happiness exceeds our use of the version we are committed to the implementation of the actual world the process rendered into ‘possible’.

And to begin it again:

The snow is very deep today. But most days you get up you go out in the dark and you walk in the dark till the light comes up and you leave the light behind you in a jar that lives in a long trail of flotsam and ahead of you flowing over the air or in the flotsam which is all around from all the other people and signing a line and managing to cope without the daylight in your little wooden precinct you think perhaps it was only earlier when the light was coming up when there was something like a triangle under ground as a foundation and every time you move or are still it is there just like your nice face. It is there, and each sleep takes you closer to every movement you make that takes your sleep and makes sleep a moving thing. The air is cut up in birds, a moving surface, [[[ A moving thing that happens, to call it the twirling Gascoyne, the swerve on the spin-mirror not-i cyclical takes the head-swirly done to your head or the dalek hung from the throat tug, hold my neck in a choke on the chain, spin my head as the lid of the jar from the mouth that takes the sleep off, stalks to creep of crap on the heap and takes the disarming sleep: Takes the sleep off detaching lid to lid clamped in the ink: slippy oil and eyes that you scatter and throw into the flotsam on the road to work and sleep where your thrown out oily eyes squint back pleadingly or in fact they reassure you because you see in them a sublime simplicity and never take them back. When all you want is what you know: that this the bed order an indestructible object placed like a throne in the cave announced as a piece of giant violent brick, want to wrap the window in mirror plastic stuck on the outside destroying sight-entry or to leave the door within the perfect ten minute window where you stop in the road and stand there, where you stop in the road and stand there starting to rot of the toe: that the journey from yours to work is startlingly complicated. You want your chucked out eyes to look on in sympathy understanding the hardships of everything which is simple and attributed vacantly to humans.

Seven angels encrusted to door, to possibility:
I seize this horrific lament where the possible is gone;
totalled into silence && privation,, to the i-body
the un-i-logical the body, the moveable aggregate
of i- of the body the -i-un-moveable funded body &&
mind thru i-pelvis. The broken no i-(this sound), to you:
No horizons, no substance. No life. No single
thing. An elegy for leaking skin. A song

of i-neglect. The primary is death - the removal
of life force and body from narration:: consensus:
privation to heart, to no eroticism, to containment.
We forget as we do;
the blank air, the dead.